Can't Touch This (14 page)

I steal a glance at my seatmate and he’s actually smiling.  The sideways loop has me flattened against him and he actually wraps his arm around me.  We laugh and scream together and wave when the coaster slows at the appropriate moment to flash and snap a picture of the riders.  One more dark tunnel and swoooooosh literally into a part of the casino before we stop where we started.  Everyone cheers and talks about how awesome the ride was.

I climb out of the car and say, “By what?”

“What, what?” Kyle asks.

“You said you were distracted and that’s why you lost money.  What distracted you?”

“Oh,” Kyle says, coming back into our pre-coaster conversation.  “There was a man sitting next to me smoking a cigar and yelling across the table flirting with this fifty-five year old woman.  She was disgusting and he was married.  They left together.”

“That’s classless,”

“Completely.  Don’t get married if you’re going to get away from home and act like that.”

I cock my head and listen to him as he rants about good old family values.  My heart thunders at his words and I’m once again reminded of the image I had of marrying him and having his children.  Good to know he wouldn’t cheat on me.

“I just think a guy should respect his family more.  And women, too,” Kyle adds.

I want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze hard.  It’s not every day you see a guy with some morals when it comes to women and relationships and family and responsibility.  I like this side of Mr. Corporate Boy.

After we’re through at New York, New York, followed by a visit to Caesar’s and Paris, we finally decided it’s time to call it a night.  Or a morning, rather.  As we’re waiting for a cab back to the hotel, I note, “I can’t get over the number of families out perusing the streets at this hour.  What are these people thinking?” I rail.  “There’s no way in hell I’d ever bring my kids to Las Freakin’ Vegas.”

“You need to learn to have an opinion, Vanessa,” Rick teases.

Kyle’s smile lifts.  “You want a family someday?”

Shrugging, I say, “Yeah, sure.  What about you?”

He eyeballs a little girl with long, blonde curls who can’t stifle a yawn. “I wouldn’t mind one of those.”

There goes that fist-clench on my heart again and I can barely breathe at the intensity of the moment.

Back at the hotel, I lie in my bed and replay the evening.  I got to see a whole other side to Kyle.  There are a lot more layers to him than I originally thought.  A lot more.  He’s kind, sensitive, and respectful.  I’m glad we were able to have this time together.

As I fall asleep, I try to conjure up Rory’s handsome face and deadly blue eyes, but for some reason, the only thing I can envision is Kyle Nettle’s smile and his warm eyes.

I sigh hard and roll over, punching the pillow with my fist.

Damn that fucking Employees Manual.

T
he tradeshow the
next day is a bitch.  Successful for the company, but a pain for my feet.  Stupid me, I wore my kitten heel Kenneth Cole sandals with the strap around the ankles that make me look taller.  Very old Hollywood style, Joan Crawford-esque.  They’re for fashion, not function.

As tired as I am, I’m motivated, too.  Watching Kyle give demos of the software is awe-inspiring.  He wows potential customers with his smile and humor and he has them asking questions without any prompting.  He’s the perfect salesman—even though he’s not officially one of them—without being slimy or sleazy.  All of our clients who stop by to visit and chat are enthralled by his every word.  Jiles was certainly smart bringing in someone as savvy as Kyle to head up our client services.  I’m totally impressed.

I do about a dozen demos myself through the course of the tradeshow.  Two of the people I demoed to had been at the SalesTracker booth and told me they liked our product better.  I make note of their names to give to the right sales people for follow-up.  It’s not about swooping anything from Rory, it’s about business.

“I’ve talked so much my voice has left me,” I squeak out toward the end of the show.  Kyle reaches into his bag and hands me a bottle of water.

“And that’s a big deal for a loudmouth like you,” Rick adds.

“Three sales today.  Not bad,” Kyle announces

“Hey, I satisfied two disgruntled clients.  That should get me some kudos.  Or at least a beer,” Rick says with a laugh.

“Great effort by all of us and I’ll make sure Jiles knows when we get home.”  Kyle closes up his computer case and we head back to the hotel.

By the time the show ends the next day, I want to chop off my feet.  Two days of hectic, demanding work and ten hours of standing in my sandals.  Must get more sensible shoes for these trips.  I long for my own clothes and not the company uniform—black pants and the company golf shirt.  Every muscle in my body aches and I want a hot bath.  But, it’s five o’clock and we’ve already checked out of the hotel.  We’re not leaving until 11:58 p.m. on the red eye back to Boston.

“God, I’m so hungry.  I could eat Caesar’s Palace,” I announce when we’re back at the rental van.

“Me too,” Rick says.  “I need a very cold beer with it.”

“All right.  Vanessa told me I needed to relax,” Kyle says.  “We’re off the company clock.  Let’s kill time at more casinos.  I’ve got to win back the money I lost last night.”

“Wait a sec,” I say.  “If we’re going to be running around all night, we need a designated driver.”

“Not it,” Rick shouts.

Mr. Professional, Kyle speaks up too.  “Me either.”  He hands me the keys to the minivan and says, “You’re it, Vanessa.”

“How did I become
it
?” I ask in disbelief.  I never win anything.  Not a scratch ticket or the slots or online contests anywhere. 
This
I win?  “You’re the one who rented this thing.  You drive.”  I dangle the keys in front of Kyle’s face.

“I’ve been selling all day, come on,” he begs and that damn dimple deepens on his cheek.  I really wish he hadn’t pulled the dimple out as ammunition.

Kyle seems to be comfortable in his non-business mode that I’d encouraged last night.  “The prettiest has to drive.  And well, look at Rick and me.  You’re it,” he says.

I’m taken aback at Kyle’s sudden remark that he thinks I’m pretty.  That kind of trumps Rory telling me I’m “cute.”  I shake out of it, though.  Kyle’s just trying to butter me up to drive around for them.

“Dammit!  That’s not fair.”  My attraction has now turned to resentment.  I worked as hard as these guys and I should be allowed to have some fun too.

“It’s completely fair,” Rick says, climbing into the back.

Apparently, I have no choice.

I inch the rental van down the crowded strip toward the more modern casinos.  Our first stop is Treasure Island.  Rick spends an hour playing Keno and Kyle is still trying at blackjack.  I stand around like a moron with the keys in my hand, waiting for the next destination.  Then, we load back into the minivan and head over to the Venetian.  The place is gorgeous and it’s full of shops and restaurants I’m dying to try out.  However, the guys are focused on the casino.  In no time at all, I’m resenting the opulent beauty around me.  A gondola with a couple making out in it passes by on the manmade water way as I search out a bathroom.  I wish I were in a gondola making out instead of playing mother hen while these guys drink and gamble.  I’m beginning to choke on the glitter and flash of this all-night town.  Honestly, I think if you want to see the glories of Italian art, hop a friggin’ plane to the real place.  It isn’t the lovely hotel’s fault that I’m not having any fun.

“Let’s hit the roulette wheel,” Kyle says when I get back to where they’re still sitting.  He immediately hits a few times and starts to recoup his losses.

“Awesome man, look at all those chips.”  Rick takes the time to count his own winnings.  “Don’t you want to take a turn, Vanessa?”

I’m not very good at gambling, but then I think of Rory’s request:

Bet on 22 black for me.

I hand the dealer a twenty dollar bill and take the chips from him.  I put everything on twenty-two black and wait while the wheel whirls around and the white ball bounces along.

This is a sign... a determination of my future.  I’m betting on Rory and he’s got to come through.

Everyone leans forward as the ball pops into one of the numbers slots.

“Eighteen red!”

Dammit!  It was right next to twenty-two black.  So close.  “Sorry, Rory,” I mutter under my breath and watch as the dealer scoops up my chips like it’s no big deal.  It’s not to him.  He does this all day long when suckers like me walk up to the table.

Maybe that wasn’t a sign.  Maybe it was just fate telling me not to waste my hard-earned money.  Especially cash I can’t get a receipt for to get reimbursed.

I won’t read too much into the “fates” having some hand in the results.

Rick snickers at me and reaches for his winnings.  “Them’s the breaks, Virtue.”

Kyle tucks chips into his pocket.  “Well, I’m feeling much better now that I’ve got some money back in my wallet.”  He and Rick fist bump each other.

I only feel worse.  Bored, annoyed, tired, hungry, ill and like it doesn’t matter whether I’m here or not.

After an hour at the Venetian, we’re back in the minivan steering toward Paris.  No, not France, although I’d rather be there.  All the casinos start looking alike after a while.  We stay at Paris for another hour.  The guys gamble while I stock up on touristy things like cheesy martini glasses and T-shirts for Griz and William.  Then, it’s off to Mandalay Bay where Kyle’s heard they have the loosest slots in town.

“Loosest sluts?  I’m there,” a drunken Rick shouts from the back of the Ford Windstar.  “Are they as cute as Isabella?”  He leans forward toward me, his eyes a bit at half mast.  “Vaness’er,” he says in his think New England accent.  “I’m so into her.  Isabell’er that is.”

“What about the company no dating policy?” I ask.  I don’t dare look at Kyle, who’s sitting there gazing out at the strip.  He’s management, after all.

“Fuck the company policy,” Rick slurs.

Kyle turns.  “Easy there, Churchman.”  He is, after all, still Rick’s boss.

I sigh and shake my head.  This is so ridiculous.  “I feel like a soccer mom taking her kids to practice.”

By the time we reach Bally’s, I’ve had enough.  Rick is acting like a complete child, making an ass of himself spilling beer on the blackjack table and Kyle seems morose and focused on the cards.  It’s not that I need to be the center of attention, but I don’t feel like I belong.  Last time this happened to me on a trip, Rory showed up and made me feel better.  Only, he’s in Seattle, not Las Vegas.

I excuse myself and go to the ladies room.  When I close the door to the stall, I completely lose it, crying my eyes out.  I’m beyond exhausted.  And hungry.  My body aches, I haven’t slept well, and I can’t participate in the debauchery because I
am
Soccer Mom.  I want my bed, my pillow, and my favorite ratty T-shirt.  And, dammit, I want Rory.

After a little while, I take some deep breaths, compose myself, and step over to the mirror to assess the damage.  I reapply my mascara and eyeliner and dab my face with some loose powder, making sure my nose isn’t too red.  I need to get hold of myself.  Only a few more hours and I’ll be headed home.  I decide to get over myself.  I’m acting like a kid and not like a grown up on a business trip.  I’ve just let tiredness get the best of me.  I’ll go out and insert myself into the fun and enjoy the time I have left here in Vegas.

Leaving the ladies room, I return to where I’d left the guys winning at blackjack.

“What the—”

They’re gone.

Nowhere in sight.

I spin around getting the lay of the casino.  This
is
the table where they were sitting.  Yeah.  I recognize the dealer.

“They left a while ago, honey,” the dealer says to me.

Terror fills my head and panic washes through me.

They left me?

But wait... I have the keys to the van.  There’s no need to freak out.  But I do.  My heart pounds furiously in my chest and I suddenly know what mothers experience in stores when their children wander off.  It’s nine-thirty and our flight leaves in a couple of hours.

Twenty minutes later I go over to a house phone.  “Could you please have Kyle Nettles paged?  Thanks.”  I listen as the overhead announcer says his name.

Nothing.

Then I try paging Rick.

Nothing.

What am I going to do?  What if something horrible happened to them?  Rick’s drunk; Kyle’s depressed.  Now I’m starting to feel guilty over my bitchy behavior.  But wait.  Maybe they ditched me because I was being no fun.  I honestly couldn’t blame them.

Maybe I should call “911” or alert the casino security.  They’ve got cameras watching every person and their every move.  I’ve seen the shows on the Travel Channel that detail the eyes in the skies in casinos.  They’d probably snicker at me if I told them I’d lost my drunken co-workers.  They’d say, “Yeah, tell us something that’s never happened, lady.”

Not knowing what else to do, I try my cell phone, but it doesn’t work inside here.  So, I make my way out of the casino until I have some bars to call out.  I dial the first person I know I can trust to tell me what to do.

“Gray Gander,” someone shouts as music blares in the back.

“May I speak to William McEwan?” I yell.  An older couple walking by looks at me like I’ve ruined their evening by speaking so loudly.

“Who?”

“William McEwan!”  I’m literally screaming into the phone in search of my roommate.

“I can’t hear you.  The music’s too loud.”

I hear the click as he hangs up.

“You asshole, that was important,” I say to the lost call.  Course, what can Wills do from thousands of miles away?  “This is insane.”

Out of desperation, I dig Rory’s business card out of my purse.  I want to talk to him more than anything.  Maybe he can calm me down.  However, all I have is his work number and that won’t do any good.  I stroke the letters on the card, hoping they’ll bring me closer to someone who really seems to care for me.  Not these two rude guys who just walked off and left me.